


Oh, and You Go

by apackofsmokes



Series: Clownin' Around [4]
Category: DCU, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Batman, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Genderfluid Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Masked Vigilantes, Unhealthy Relationships, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7120672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apackofsmokes/pseuds/apackofsmokes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's pointless to allow himself any grief. He made his choice over and over, would still make it. But his traitorous asshole of a heart is doing some wonky shit, and he kind of wants to puke or cry. Or both.<br/><br/><em> Has seeing Derek Hale really made you this fucking brave? </em><br/><br/>Has it? Is that what was happening? Was it brave standing up to Theo the way he did? Or is he as good as dead the next time they run into each other?</p>
<p>Damn, breakups are the <em> worst</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, and You Go

**Author's Note:**

> Yikes, sorry this took 84 years, but FINALLY SOME PLOT AND STEREK AMIRIGHT?! I'll try to update faster next time :)
> 
> Special thanks to my beta babes: [Lor](http://agenthale.tumblr.com), [Sarah](http://midnightfistfights.tumblr.com), [Em](http://emmikinzzi.tumblr.com), [Bella](http://runedsterek.tumblr.com), and [åse](http://illusemywords.tumblr.com)
> 
> (tell me if I missed any tags pls)

**Hale Manor, Outside Beacon City Limits**

 

It's barely dawn when Scott and Stiles walk up the tree-lined road to the gates of Hale Manor. Their clothes in tatters, torn and sweaty from bringing down a few of Peter's question marked henchmen. Unsurprisingly, not the only gang they’ve fought tonight.

Stiles presses his palms against the iron bars, the mansion looming on the hill top. The manor and property surroundings it were miles away from the city, untarnished by concrete, rusted steel, and smog. Even the rebuild, though still vastly larger than any other house in upper class Beacon, was designed to be homey. Nonetheless, Stiles doubted anyone but a Hale felt that way about the mansion. He likened it to the uncomfortable spine tingle caused by Victorian portraits with wandering eyes. Hale Manor was a specific place for specific people. A haunt.

Nothing's changed as far as he can tell. Still, he half expects there to be some kind of electric force field made to keep him out. Or a _No Crazy Villain Ex’s Allowed! Beware of Bats!_ sign nailed to front lawn. Although, maybe Derek should get one of those anyway with his track record. At least _Stiles_ didn’t set fire to the original Hale house. That’s always a plus, right?  
  
"Well I guess this is where I take my leave, good sir." Stiles salutes and steps away before he does something stupid… like go inside.  
  
It's pointless to allow himself any grief. He made his choice over and over, would still make it. But his traitorous asshole of a heart is doing some wonky shit, and he kind of wants to puke or cry. Or both.  
  
_Has seeing Derek Hale really made you this fucking brave?_  
  
Has it? Is that what was happening? Was it brave standing up to Theo the way he did? Or is he as good as dead the next time they run into each other?

Damn, breakups are the _worst_.

Whatever, there were better things to do than reflect over past bullshit, which he will most definitely do as long as it’s literally in front of his face. At the lair, there’s nothing but Theo Theo _Theo._ It’s damp and dark and the complete opposite of the sun slowly rising, setting Scott’s skin aglow. It’s why things were so easily ignored for months at a time.

Scott glances at him then and frowns; he must look as pathetic as he feels. And he feel pretty fucking pathetic. “You don’t have to. I mean, Lydia will probably strangle you with her vines if you interrupt her beauty sleep, right?”

“I don’t know, man. It’s—I can’t just…”

The frown disappears and Scott smiles softly, always so understanding. “You can. We’ll catch some z’s, get lunch later. You don’t have to see or talk to anyone else. We can even leave through the window if you want. I just… I don’t want you to disappear again. Derek thought you were dead, or acted like it away.”

“You didn’t?” Stiles questions.

Scott’s eyebrows knit together. “I told you I knew you helped Theo escape. How would I know that? What, you think you covered up your paper trail on your own? Derek might’ve been oblivious to your hobbies, but _I know you._  You weren’t exactly as subtle as you thought when we were teenagers.”

Stiles’ chest swells with panic. He thought he’d been so careful, should’ve known he wasn’t the only sneaky fuck out of the two of them. “You knew this whole time.” Stiles shakes his head in disbelief. If he was so transparent, who else knew? Had his father?

“Dude, you used to get this glazed over expression every time Theo’s mugshot was on the news. I only found his swiped file because I was looking for your Chem notes. Really, Stiles? Under your mattress? Gross.”

Stiles laughs loud and gleeful. “You amaze me Scotty.” But... “Why didn’t you tell Derek?”

Scott shrugs, “Derek’s my friend too. A brother. Why rub it in that you’ve been obsessed with the Joker for your entire relationship? What good would that do?”

“Well he’d know I wasn’t _dead_.”

Scott sighs, defeated. “To him, this isn’t much better.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, his chin raised indignantly, but Scott is already pushing the gate open and walking down the path. “I didn’t agree!” He shouts at Scott’s retreating back, stomps, then follows with crossed arms. Something stupid it is.

He’s pouting like a toddler and feels justified in doing so. Annoyance is better than gut wrenching anxiety.

Once they get to the door, Scott types a code on the keypad, and Isaac’s voice comes through the intercom. “ _You’re supposed to take the trash out, Scott, not bring it back in._ ”

Ah, Isaac Lahey, what a breath of uptight, unwelcoming air. He’d forgotten about that douchebag and how much they despised each other. Stiles might not have been a great person to start, but neither was Isaac. They had tended to avoid each other like the plague on a good day. On a bad one, Derek would lock them in separate rooms to cool off before it turned into a bloodbath. It had actually gotten to the point where Stiles was so paranoid that he would make his own food and do his own laundry. So yeah, no love lost there.

Stiles bristles at the insult and snaps back, “Yeah? Then how the fuck are you still here? Aren’t you tired of mooching off Hale money yet? Must be _exhausting_ pretending like you belong.” Okay, so maybe he’s projecting a bit. Not that he didn't mean every fucking word.

_“You’d know all about that wouldn’t you, Stilinski? Why, I bet—”_

“Guys!” Scott cuts Isaac off, “It’s too early for this.” Then turns to Stiles, “Sorry, I didn’t think he’d be awake.” He doesn't say anymore on it though, clearly not wanting to pick a side between his friend and boyfriend.

Stiles goes back to his pouting.

They walk through a foyer that opens into a large sitting room, complete with a fireplace that Stiles has _many_ fond memories of. Their first winter together he convinced Derek to buy a huge heap of faux furs and roleplay Game of Thrones. _Fond_.

Isaac storms through the hallway in his bathrobe, straight to Stiles and passes a slap so hard Theo would be impressed.

“Zac!” Scott gasps.

At the same time, Stiles pulls out his six shooter and aims directly at Isaac’s head. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Scott may be puppies and sunshine and goddamn cotton candy, but Stiles will be damned if he won’t blow his overgrown cherub of a boyfriend to hell if he tries that shit again. Who the fuck does he think he is? Theo?

Isaac is having none of it, doesn’t even flinch at the gun as he yells at Scott, “Have you lost your mind?! Derek was in ruins for months! He's finally back on his feet, and you just what? Bring the cause into his home? Our home? You think he,” Isaac points a finger in Stiles’ face, and Stiles knocks it away with his barrel, “gives a fuck about any of us? You’re lucky Cora isn’t here; she’d skin you both.” With a last look, he sneers, “Whatever, you can all starve for the next week.” And turns back down the hall where he and Scott’s rooms are, slamming the door once he’s there.

“Scott, I’ll just go,” Stiles says, holstering his gun and scrubbing a hand over his stinging face. “I’m sure Derek would hate if I got blood on Talia’s rug.” As much as he hates Isaac, the adopted Hale makes his best bro happy, and he refuses to let someone else’s problem with him shit all over Scott McCall: Boy Wonder.

“No! No… I’ll talk to him. Just...” Scott puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, “stay, please.”

Oh hell, Stiles is so weak to those sad brown eyes. “Go get right with Curly Q, I’ll be here when you’re done.”

Scott nods then practically sprints out of the room.

What to do, what to do. Stiles drums his fingers against his leg boredly, biting his cheek. Yep, he’s going for it. He turns on his heel and proceeds in the opposite direction of the other two men. It’s a path he’s more than familiar with. Could make it drunk, naked, and blindfolded; sometimes all three at once.

He stops in front of a thick oak door, easing it open gently, and slips inside; the blackout curtains keeping out the first rays of morning sun. Silently, he pads across the carpet, shedding layers as he goes. Knives, guns, boots, pants, barely held together shirt, until he’s down to bright red underwear.  

As he crawls under the sheets Derek blinks at him, but doesn’t hesitate to pull him close. Stiles never could sneak into bed without Derek stirring. Honestly, he prefers sleeping like the dead, otherwise he’d never be rested. Theo sleep-cackles.

“Derek—”

“Shh, I’m too tired for reason,” Derek mumbles, puffing breaths against Stiles’ nape.  

_Thank god_ , he thinks, because he doesn’t have a single one for this situation.

 

* 

 

Stiles wakes up warm and disoriented to an empty bed. He bolts upright, having the strangest case of deja vu in his life. The curtains are tied open, basking everything in the afternoon haze, and it’s almost like stepping through time. Somewhere, a younger version of Derek chats on the phone to a business associate or the press – waiting for a younger version of Stiles to kiss, after studying all night for exams.

Instead, real Derek walks in wearing sweatpants and eyes Stiles sitting against the headboard with slight suspicion. Which, okay, he deserves. But if Stiles wanted him dead, he would’ve let Theo have his fun in the warehouse. Or slit his throat while he slept. Either way, at this point distrust is irrelevant.

“You still have my pillow.” Stiles, always the diffuser. He might as well be a bomb expert. Oh wait, he is.

Derek shuffles uncomfortably, maybe expert was too strong a word. “I wondered how you managed to sleep without it... I wondered a lot of things.”

Ignoring that elephant, Stiles shrugs, “Oh you know, the same as everyone else: torture, sedatives, blunt force trauma.”

A wounded noise passes Derek’s lips — guess it wasn't as funny as Stiles thought, no matter how true — as he hesitates at the edge of the bed. His bed. A bed they used to share and did so again last night. Kusco’s poison. The wariness is making Stiles’ chest feel unsettled. Like something cold thawing, or the sting of a hot bath in December.

Don’t get him wrong, he isn’t ignorant to what he’s done — even sorry to an extent now that the honeymoon’s over — but the ice cracks and splinters. He’ll drown if he’s not careful, a tidal wave of liquid emotion filling his lungs.

He’s being selfish, is what it is. Selfish to leave, selfish to come back. His mind wars with itself; Leave. Stay. Push. Pull. But even now, he’s firmly in the ballpark of _they couldn’t have gone on the way they were_.   

With his gaze everywhere but on the man in front of him, the room’s discrepancies become far too noticeable. Stiles sees why Derek really hasn’t moved towards him, why he seems so nervous. He’s worried what Stiles will think of him.

Because when Stiles’ says nothing has changed, he means literally nothing. Every piece of himself that he had brought and left over the years — articles of clothing, his glasses, that totally awesome Star Wars bedside table, his mother’s antique lamp, college books, pictures of them and family and friends — it’s untouched.

His breathing frets, his palms dampen, and god are the walls closing in? Just him? Oh good.

“Stiles? Stiles!” Derek _does_ rush to the bed then and starts counting slowly, clearly. “—eight, nine, ten. Can you do it backwards? Let’s try, ten, nine—” They go on like that until his vision isn’t spotted, and his heart has calmed. “God, Stiles, you scared the hell out of me. I was about to run and find Scott’s inhaler. Are you okay?” Derek asks, while combing his fingers through Stiles’ hair. Fingers snag on a few tangles, but it’s still comforting.

In a twisted way, it reminds him of Theo. How he calls Stiles _Sweetheart_ and pets his hair; sometimes while they watch the old black and white movies Theo loves, sometimes while he fucks Stiles’ mouth.

Shit, he misses Theo, but he sidelines that for the present. For Derek’s arms around him, soothing and patient. He takes a deep breath and scans the room again, much more prepared for what he’ll find.  

Stiles always knew Derek saw this house as a punishment; his own personal self torture. The manor and grounds are nothing short of a livable mausoleum, even without it being the original mansion. Stiles just never assumed he’d be buried here as well.

_Oh, Der._

Surprisingly, Derek is the first to speak. “Scott told me you’ve been staying with Lydia and Erica. I texted them, told them you were safe. Arguably, the safest place in Beacon.”

There were so many thing in that statement Stiles was struggling to wrap his head around. So he settles on, “You have their numbers? Huh?” 

Articulate. Real winner there, Stilinski.

Derek scritches his cheek with the hand not resting on Stiles’ head. “Uh, yeah. Erica and I work together a lot. We keep in contact.”

“Right,” he says, nonplussed. He knew that, everyone knew that. But knowing now that it was Derek and Erica, not just Batman and Catwoman… that was new. “You, uh, you still have all my stuff.”

He can imagine the face Derek makes when he says, “Well, you left it so…”

Stiles sighs, “That's what you do when you run away from your problems to bigger and better… problems.” See he’s a mature adult, he can admit things. “You let go of excess baggage. And here it is.” He gestures to the room as a whole, “exactly where I left it.” Okay, mature adult with some issues to work through.

Under him Derek freezes, so he swiftly changes the subject. He understands unhealthy coping mechanisms. They all have them. Stiles kills people with various weapons. Who is he to judge?

And he really did miss his pillow.  

“So Scott!” Stiles says way too obvious. “We were supposed to have lunch.” Though going by the sunlight, he’s guessing it’s much later than noon. “Or is he too busy trying to make good with little orphan Annie?”

Derek quirks an eyebrow, “Are you implying that I'm Daddy Warbucks?”

“Are you implying you aren't? You collect more strays than an animal shelter. Not to mention you're loaded. I know, I was one of the strays.”

“We’re a family. You’re the only one who thought you didn’t fit.” It’s said in a way that leaves no room for argument, though that’s never stopped him before.

“Isaac,” Stiles says pointedly.

Derek laughs lightly, and Stiles knows no one told him about the scene this morning. “Fair. But you really need to let this feud die if you plan to–”

“Plan to what?” Stiles asks, hopeful, looking up from Derek’s lap.

There's a tiny tug at one of the red strands of Stiles’ hair. It's playful and so reminiscent of _before_ that his stomach flips. “If you plan to keep coming around.”

_Yes,_ he doesn’t say. Instead, “You still haven’t asked me what I’m doing here?” He squints, “Aren’t you worried this is all some ploy? That Theo sent me here to charm you, then snap your neck or some shit.”

“With what charm?”

“Oh fuck you,” Stiles snickers, slapping Derek’s chest, swooning at the soft hair there — at the pulse thumping against his hand. They must look like lovers, embracing in crumpled sheets, scantily dressed. The thought brings blood rushing to his cheeks. He wills his body to stop betraying him, but it’s a damn bastard.

Derek catches Stiles’ fingers, passing a thumb over each knuckle. “Was the snoring part his ploy too? Because it sure made me _want_ someone to snap my neck.”

They both dissolve into a fit of giggles, that take a turn to childish tickles.

_Is this what love feels like?_

He’s been with Theo so long he doesn't remember what’s up from down anymore. He knows weapons and movement, he knows how to disarm two hundred and six different types of alarms, and how to crack every safe created before last month. But his heart, it’s as fickle as it is loyal. A contrast, like his mess of clothes and makeup. If this feeling is love, though, he has no doubt it’ll only hurt more later.

By the time he's on his way back to Lydia’s, he forgets the itchy sadness from Theo kicking him to the curb and thinks instead about bunny teeth and how he purposefully left his pillow right where he found it.

 

*

 

**Apartment of Lydia Martin and Erica Reyes/Joker's Lair**

 

Stiles is lounging on the girls’ couch — his current place of residence — and chewing lazily on a pack of twizzlers. Reruns of crappy day-time shows play over the sound of Lydia in her lab mixing chemicals and tapping furiously on her computer. Just another illustrious day with the Beacon City Sirens.

Lydia nods at one of her plants, as the living room window slides open, and Erica slips through. She not wearing her mask or latex. Even villains tend to take Sundays off.

Not turning away from the episode of Cake Boss, Stiles mumbles around his candy, “Where’d you get off to?” Stiles leers, “Or with? Did you tell Boyd hi for me? Did you scream my name when—”

“You’re gross,” Erica says, flipping her curls and gets a drink from the fridge. “I was just running errands. Vernon is giving me the cold shoulder again.”

“Oh my god, we get it,” Stiles drawls. “Your boyfriend has an ice fetish… cool it.”

She gags in his direction, “You and Theo are perfect for each other.”

Glass shatters from Lydia’s station, and a sunflower near the sink withers.

Stiles bites off a piece of twizzler and spits it at Erica’s hair hoping it’ll get sticky and stuck, but she swats it at the floor. Damn those cat-like reflexes. “First rule of girl code is do not mention bastard ex’s in the scorned lover’s general vicinity. My heart aches, Erica. Don’t you care about my fragile disposition?”

“No.” She flops down at the other end of the couch, her feet kneading under Stiles’ thigh. “ _Anyway,_ Boyd told me he struck a deal with Derek. A kinda probation, that if he keeps his frosty nose clean for the next few months, Derek knows a guy who can fix him and his popsicle of a sister.”

Stiles snort, “Regular bleeding hearts, you and Derek.”

Erica crinkles her nose. “That’s why we’re on the outs. He says I'm trouble.”

“You are trouble!” Lydia calls.

Stiles raises his candy as if to toast, “Here, here!”

Erica rolls her eyes and wiggles her toes. “He’ll still be part machine, but less… arctic.”

That’s a shame, Stiles was really down with the whole snowglobe aesthetic Boyd had going. He offers Erica his snack, and she takes two, throwing one back at his face which he catches in his mouth and chews, asking, “So, name change I’m guessing? Can’t be Mr. Freeze without the freeze part.”

“Cyborg,” she says absently, staring at a five layer wedding cake in the shape of Jacques Cousteau. “It was Scott’s idea.”

“Sounds like a Scott idea.”

They both tilt their heads as the on-screen pastry crumbles and splatters on the baker’s floor.

Erica frowns, “What a waste.”

“I’d still eat it,” Stiles says, digging in the bag for another twizzler.

Lydia rests her arms over Stiles shoulders from behind the couch, “You’ve certainly eaten worse.”

Tracing the vines up her arms, Stiles sighs. He might have been exaggerating a bit, but he is lovesick. Can still hear Theo’s voice telling him to get the fuck out. He misses his lunatic lover and their lair, doesn't even care about the leaky walls and Jackson’s growls echoing through the tunnels at all hours of the day.

When Stiles reaches for the bag again, Lydia smacks his hand. “Stop moping!” Then points at Erica, “And stop encouraging his moping! All this over that psycho. Don't you remember the times he actively tried to _kill_ you?”

“ _Lyds_ ,” he pleads, getting real tired of her broken record routine.

“Like the rocket, or the the bank or the—”

Effectively cutting her off he whines, “Can we take this trip down Memory Lane later? _Chopped_ is on.”

“I didn’t give you a special chemical boost so you could sit around and eat your feelings. I swear you wouldn't see a good thing if it flew right at your stupid face. You could have Derek Hale at your beck and call, and yet you sob on _my_ throw pillows over a pasty clown. Hopeless!”

She takes one of said pillows and hits Stiles with it, Erica getting caught in the crossfire until all three of them are a giggling mess.

Stiles sobers, running a palm over his face. “I _had_ Derek, and we all know how that ended.”

“Because you ended it. Say what you will, but I remember you from our college days. He didn't make you as miserable as you want everyone to believe,” Lydia retorts.

“Things are different now,” he argues. A small voice in his head whispers, _because you want something impossible.You want them both._

As if reading his thoughts, Lydia deadpans, “Oh, you mean since you became a cold blooded killer and started fucking his arch nemesis? I would never have guessed.” She flicks a loose strawberry-blonde lock away from her face, “I swear all men are idiots.”

“Hey!” Stiles shouts indignantly, even though most of that is, in fact, true. Except for one thing.

Because that's not… _he's_ not — at least not always — a he. Theo never forgets, knows exactly when to call Stiles what and to be gentle. Like he understands Stiles gets skittish and needs something so different from how they usually treat each other. Tears well up, but don't fall. Fuck, he hates this.

Lydia softens, catching her mistake. “Sorry. That was insensitive and rude. What I meant was _you,_ singularly, are an idiot.”

With the yellow pillow Lydia smacked him with earlier clutched to his chest, he sniffs, “Fine.” He does feel like an idiot.

“We should go out!” Erica suggests trying to brighten the mood. Though coming from her it's less of a suggestion and more of a demand.

“Nope,” Stiles says, popping the P. “I have a full schedule of wallowing in self pity. It's necessary to the healing process, I know, I was a—”

“Psychiatrist,” both the girls mock in unison, tackling him into the couch cushion.

Erica presses a kiss to his cheek, “Smear on your warpaint, you cute little psycho. It’s time to paint the town!”

“Oh yeah? What color?” Stiles laughs.

Lydia smirks, “Red.”

“Fine,” Stiles agrees. “But only if Erica let’s me borrow her leather pants.”

 

*

 

Theo wakes up alone for the fifth morning in a row. No teeth nipping at his skin, no brushing his hand against the cold metal of a pistol under the pillow next to his, no taste of sugar and blood on his tongue.

No Stiles.

Getting out of bed, he kicks trash and other nonsense out his path, slamming into the kitchen. “Stiles!” He passes by the pair of wolf cubs lying on the couch. They snap and snarl at him. “The fuck is your problem?!”

Tracy and Josh try to contain their reaction from the table. Their attention no longer on managing Theo’s business, but completely on his misfortune.

“What's happening here, guys?” Theo asks, miserable and frustrated. “This place is a goddamn mess.” He points an accusing finger at the wolves, “Those fuckers tried to bite me, and I can't find my socks! Where. Is. Stiles.”

Tracy clears her throat. She always was the employee who was least afraid of him. If she wasn't so efficient, he’d feed her to Jackson. “Um, you gave him the boot, Boss.”

Theo pouts, confused, “But he always comes back.”

Where would Stiles even go? He has no one _but_ Theo. Which is exactly how it should be. What more could anyone want?

“Oh, you must've not seen the news then…” Josh says sheepishly, handing Theo his tablet.

After a light scroll he sees the headline ‘ ** _Beacon City Sirens, Ménage à Trois of Crime!’_** Under it, a picture of Stiles popping his bubblegum while Erica and Lydia laugh behind him, all three looking to have robbed the jewelry store on Eighth Avenue. Because he thinks he’d remember Stiles being covered in that many rubies.

“What the _fuck_?!”

 

*

 

“He loves me.”

_Click._

“He loves me not.”

_Click._

“He loves me.”

_Click._

Stiles pops the cylinder out and spins, snapping it back into place. Putting the revolver against his temple again. “He loves me not,” he says miserably and pulls the trigger.

_Click._

He lets out a breath of both relief and disappointment. The game just not as fun without Theo playing with him. Stiles’ favorite part was guessing how many bullets Theo chose to load. Once, he filled all six holes and said loser had to drag the bodies in the freezer out to Jackson. Needless to say, it ended with them fucking against the fridge.

He takes another swig of whatever concoction Lydia had sitting by her beakers. Gagging, he sticks out his tongue trying to see if it’s changed colors. The liquid itself is green and intoxicating and makes his toes numb. It reminds him of Theo, but what doesn't these days. He’s been at this for half an hour, all alone in the girls’ kitchen with only sentient plants to watch him sulk. They aren't the worst company he’s kept, but he’s getting real fucking tired of that one fern’s shit attitude. Though, it was his test subject to see if whatever he decided to ingest would kill him. Jury's still out.

The Venus flytrap across the table from him chomps.

“Not you too! Like Fern isn't bad enough.” Stiles faces said plant who is just sitting there... _judging._ “Yeah, I'm talkin’ about you, asshole.” His speech slurring.

Turning back to Vee he asks, “So you a boy or a girl?”

The carnivorous plant shrugs it's adorable little leaves.

Stiles nods, “Same.” Maybe Lydia’s on to something with her ‘vegetation is better than people’ shtick. But not even commiserating with foliage lifts his spirits. “What am I gonna do? Why hasn't Theo called?”

Vee flicks some of its soil into Stiles hair. Fucking rude.

“I can't just call _him!_ What if he’s busy?” He rests his chin on a palm and whispers, “What if he’s still mad?”

If the choices were not hearing Theo’s voice or hearing his murdery shriek calling Stiles a ditzy idiot and threatening to maim him, well… it's nothing he hasn't heard before.

Stiles digs his phone out of his pocket and hits the contact picture of Theo grinning and twirling a fake mustache while smacking Stiles out of the shot.

“You better be right, my photosynthesizing friend.”

 

*

 

Theo’s scrawling over blueprints for a brilliant plan, which very well might be his most brilliant yet, if he could just—just…

_Fuck it_.

He frustratingly balls up the oversized sheet of paper and stabs it repeatedly with his pencil, picturing Batman’s perfect fucking face. His irritation is so encompassing that a ringing pounds through his skull. Rubbing his temples, he suddenly realizes that the ringing is actually coming from outside his head.

“Stiles! Get the phone!” But it continues, because _oh right._ With a growl, Theo picks up. “What?!”

A hesitant voice comes through the speaker, _“Theo?”_

Theo grins like a feral wildcat and presses a button to trace the call, “Stiles! Baby! Pumpkin Pie!”

Before he can say anything else, he’s interrupted by Stiles’ (quite possibly drunk) rambling, _“I’m sooo sorry Theo, fuck. I fucked up and I never should have let you know who go. You’re the only one for me, Boss! Are you still mad? I swear I didn’t mean to make you mad. I need—please just—”_

Stiles’ sobs crackling over the line feel like a victory all on its own, so he concedes, “Shh, Sweetheart. _Of course_ I’m not still mad, you know how Daddy overreacts when you do stupid things. And we _both_ know I’m not one to hold a grudge.” His tone goes dark, “Where are you?”

_“I’m staying with—”_ Stiles starts, then stops at the sound of a door opening from wherever he is. _“Damn, I gotta go, but I’ll talk to you soon... I love you, Theo.”_

It’s said so sincerely that after the lines goes dead, Theo cackles, reading Stiles’ location. “Sooner than you think, Pet.”   

 

*

 

 

It's takes fourteen hours, a gnarly hangover, and Lydia dunking his phone in a cup of acid (so that’s why his throat burned) to realize that calling Theo was a huge fucking mistake. He should never have listened to that goddamn plant. Didn't that plant know he was trying to retain his self respect? Didn't it understand that he wanted to make Theo sweat for longer than this?

No, because it's a fucking plant.

He groans, burying his face under two blankets and a pillow. But it's not _his_ pillow, which he seems to have regressed to needing since seeing it at home on Derek’s bed. 

Ugh, when did the sun get so bright? He blames all the greenery lining the apartment, drawing more in through the windows and ruining his life. Wait, _that's it._ He throws on sweatpants and a hoodie, before making his way across the city. All the while hoping he doesn't ralph on any random pedestrians. Maybe if he plays his cards right, Derek can convince Isaac to cook him some soup. If he’s really lucky, it won't even be laced with arsenic.

 

*

 

**Hale Manor**

 

Sneaking past the manor's security is ridiculously easy for the type of lifestyle Derek leads. Honestly, who’s the computer whizz that installed this shoddy system? It was down and out in less time than it took to kick Jackson’s scaly ass.

The act of crawling through Derek’s bedroom window makes him nostalgic for his teenage years. Derek slipping through undetected by the good commissioner — Stiles flinging himself out of his twin bed to kiss Derek senseless even though it’d barely been half a day since they’d seen one another.

A spark of mischief ignites within him. Fun fun fun. He hasn't felt this exhilarated since he and Theo had a gun fight over which place to order take out, and Stiles clipped him in the shoulder.

This time as soon as Stiles’ feet hit the bedroom carpet, Derek peeks open an eye and smiles like he was dreaming about the Mets winning the World Series. “You came back,” is all he says.

Stiles shrugs, “I'm hungover and you know I—”

“—need your pillow,” Derek finishes.

_No I need you._

“Guilty,” Stiles says, stripping off his clothes and crawling between the sheets. “Are you gonna arrest me?”

The answering eye roll is visible even in the dark. “Batman doesn't arrest people. You know that.”

“Aw c’mon, I bet I could find an old pair of handcuffs around here. Third drawer—no fourth—”

One of Derek’s hands cover his mouth, shutting him up — while the other snakes around his waist, so that Derek’s spooning him from behind. “Is this restrained enough?”

Stiles licks Derek’s hand until it's pulled away abruptly and snuggles deeper into the inviting arms, “It’ll do.”

Falling asleep, he asks himself the same question as the last time he was in Derek Hale’s bed.

_Is this what love feels like?_

 

*

 

It’s been three days since he crawled back into Derek’s window, bed, life and he hasn't left since.

They spend the day snoozing away, bodies pressed tight, and the night in the streets — Derek and the Bat Bunch doing their usual beat, Stiles tagging along with little protest from Derek. Which, even though it's not within Derek’s rights of their tentative friendship, still surprises him. All it took was Stiles becoming a supervillain for everyone to believe he could take care of himself.

The rest of the gang is peaches and cream. Scott is nothing but goofy smiles, and Cora deals by pretending he doesn't exist, but Stiles is sure that won't last. Cora always makes her inconveniences known.  

Despite the youngest Hale, it makes him wistful for a life they could've had, instead of the fucked mess that they’re trying to build a new foundation on. It also makes him nauseous. The sneaking, the secrets; he hated it before, back when he was underaged, and Derek was just some billionaire playboy. So he sure as hell doesn't want to relive that, not when all the cards are finally on the table.

But at best, he’s not exactly someone who can openly be on Beacon’s top bachelor, Derek Hale’s arm. At worst, technically he's a wanted criminal. Stiles knows he isn't… good. Not anymore. And definitely not up to whatever Bat-standard Derek tries to police. Since running patrols, there are moments shame jolts through Stiles when he missteps; taking down a goon with one too many bullets, snagging a wad of cash out of an embezzlers duffel bag while Derek subtly gives him these disappointed looks.

Why does he have to pick a side? Why can’t he have it both ways? Saving the city on Tuesday, destroying it on Wednesday. Thursday with Theo, Friday with Derek. There has to be a balance somewhere, a happy ever after medium.  

But there aren't happy ever afters in Beacon. Especially not for Stiles Stilinski. So like everything else he wants but doesn't deserve — he’ll just have to fucking steal it anyway.

He’ll just have to change the game.

 

*

 

A little over a week later is when things get infinitely messier.

It's a Sunday, and any supervillain worth their weight in stolen gold knows that the general rule of thumb is Sundays are off limits. No major crimes, hardly a petty theft until come 6am Monday morning. A true day of rest for the most corrupt city in America. Of course there are always stragglers who think they’re above the system, but with a lack of utter chaos, street cops get them in a cell easily enough.

For decades it's been this way. A Beacon tradition. The Yakuza stay on their side of town, and the Calaveras attend mass as one grouped sinning congregation; Stiles briefly wonders if the confessional has last call. Even Theo — with all his mania and need for constant disaster — spends the day out of a suit, lazing around the lair. Once Theo took him to ride a hazardous ferris wheel in an abandoned amusement park, and they didn't even kill the owner. Ah, Sundays.

His father hated them. Said they were one extra day the scum of the city walked among the innocent, free and undetected. Because criminals don't deserve rest when every other day of the week the good people of Beacon tremble in fear, waiting for the next attack.

So obviously Derek feels the same.

It's just after 9pm and the gang are hanging out at the Manor, each in a different state of costume undress, no one quite ready to start the night. Cora and Scott are fighting over the remote on the couch, while Stiles eats a bowl of cereal in nothing but his tightest pair of diamond spotted red pants.

Derek enters from the Batcave — wearing everything but his cowl — and quirks an eyebrow at Stiles sitting on the kitchen counter, “That can't be sanitary.”

Stiles flutters his lashes sweetly, “Like you haven't fucked me on every single surface in this place.”

They’d been playing at this since Stiles climbed through Derek’s bedroom window; Stiles saying shit he knows will rile Derek up, Derek ignoring it at all costs. Really they haven't done more than hardcore cuddling and pretending like their relationship didn't fall apart. Mostly they goof off and eat together and fight baddies that recognize Stiles by name. It’s almost like healing, relearning who they are now. No secrets holding the other back.

A few nights ago he watched Derek take on two of Jennifer Blake’s hired guns without breaking a sweat, bat emblazoned gadgets whipping through the air. Stiles couldn’t help himself, he laughed and laughed until even Derek was lifting the corners of his mouth.

It's not cheating, Stiles reminds himself. Theo dumped him like a dead body. And he distinctly _doesn't_ remind himself that it was at the first sight of Derek in Theo’s grasp. The last thing he needs is that type of hit to his ego.

So when Derek blushes and his gaze falls over Stiles’ naked skin, inked and scarred, what he least expects is for Derek to also take a step closer. Taking Stiles empty bowl and putting it in the sink, he slots between Stiles’ spread legs. “Hmm,” Derek hums, his nose brushing across Stiles cheek to his ear. “I remember.”

Stiles shivers, feeling seventeen again. _I’m losing myself,_ he thinks, _regressing since I touched the manor’s gate._ “Der, what—”

“Derek!” Scott shouts from the living room. “The bat signal!”

In the mad rush of getting themselves together, Stiles stops and thinks about how Derek’s lips used to feel on his own.

Finstock is totally on his shit list.

“Has Coach finally lost his last marbles? Why the hell is he flashing the brights?” Stiles asks as they pile in the Batmobile. Cora’s riding shotgun with Scott and Stiles in the back, the vehicle speeding rapidly through the underground tunnels.

“ _That's rich coming from you_ ,” Isaac snipes, over the comms they each have in their ears. Probably perched in front of the a GPS read out, safely in the Batcave.

Derek speaks before Stiles can say something equally as nasty, “I'm sure _Commissioner Finstock_ has a reasonable explanation for hitting the lights.”

Scott groans, “But it's _Sunday.”_

_“_ I know,” Derek replies, his tone a graveyard.

Well this is too serious for the end of the week, Stiles decides, pulling out his earpiece and smashing it beneath his heel. Feedback echoes through the car and he smirks at the cringes. There, mood lightened.

He has no idea what the night will hold, but for the first time in a over two years, the yellow circle blasting across the sky doesn't fill him with dread. He isn't worried the Bat will come and bust up him and Theo’s fun, tossing them both in Eichen for his first stint as a patient. Maybe it's a classic ‘grass is always greener’ type situation, but when Stiles looks up and sees that beam? He feels what every average citizen in Beacon must, what he felt before he donned a mask of his own… or possibly longer. Having lost more than just his father three years ago.

Hope.

 

*

 

**Beacon City Police Department Rooftop**

 

Once they park a few blocks away from the BCPD, Derek gives the order for everyone to go on their beat, and for Stiles to wait in the car while he goes up and chitchats with Finstock. Like that’s going to happen. It’s almost too easy to stay a building behind that flapping black cape, hopping and sprinting from rooftop to rooftop. This is his city too. He understands every ledge and stone like he was built alongside them. Held together by mortar and cement, eternal in a way.

When he started with Theo, he poured over countless maps and blueprints of Beacon’s underground. Otherwise he wouldn’t have even been able to find his way back to the lair. Beacon’s convoluted in its build; the streets, the sewers… all constructed in the 1800’s by Jeremiah Eichen. A madman who thought that the complex system would trap evil spirits that plagued the city. The very same ones that Dr. Amadeus Eichen, his brother, claimed drove him insane. Rumor was the entire bloodline was cursed with psychosis, which Stiles can’t refute… his mother was an Eichen.  

But he isn't one for superstition, this place is his home. And logically, he knows there isn’t anything around here more evil than the person sharing his bed.

On the last building jump, Stiles lands precisely behind a slow moving central air turbine. More than out of view of the the other two men, not wanting to blow his cover. _Heh, air turbine, blow his cover._ He peeks over and sees Derek and his pointy ears, standing in front of his father’s replacement, Commissioner Bobby Finstock. Neither look happy to be there. 

"—heard you were running around with someone matching the description of Joker's boytoy."  
  
Derek seems to be on the verge of kicking Finstock in the chest. "You shined the light for that? You aren't this green anymore, Bobby." And apparently, even if he won't say it to the team, "Its Sunday for fuck’s sake!"  
  
"Cavortin' with criminals," Finstock shakes his head. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt ‘cause you and Commissioner Stilinski were some kinda close, and he was one hell of a partner. Possibly the best damn man I've ever known." He laughs, "That’s some big shoes to fill, ya know?” Derek stays quiet, so Finstock continues, “Listen, I ain't tryin' to take his place anymore than I have to, for Beacon. But I just wanna make sure you know what you're doin', kid."  
  
"I do!" Derek growls. He takes a breath, then says sternly, "I do."  
  
Finstock snorts and lights a cigarette from his coat pocket, facing away from the wind. "Glad we had this heart to heart,” he deadpans, taking a drag. “Let’s stick to business from now on. Deal?” Derek’s gone when he turns around and Finstock mutters, “This is why I drink every single day of my life.”

  
  
*

 

Stiles is waiting in the car where Derek left him, when he comes down. And without saying a word, Derek hits the streets. Besides the grit and alley piss, the city air isn’t so bad, but it’s downright stifling with the tension he feels radiating off the caped crusader.

He leaves it be. They can talk in eight hours when the night’s run its course, and Stiles is too exhausted to kill a bystander.

 

*

 

**Batcave, Hale Manor**

 

Stiles couldn't be more thankful for the sun rising over the city’s skyline with the night he had. Derek communicating in only grunts and frowns made it nearly impossible for them to keep it together.

Sure it was slow, as to be expected for a Sunday; a mugging here, a few B and E’s. Practically child’s play. But everything was off — one conversation with Finstock, and Derek was breaking. Stiles could see it in his missed footing, in his too hard punches.

After returning to the manor, Cora and Scott drift to their rooms sleepily. Even smooth goings wore them thin. They were only human, barely old enough to legally drink. Stiles though, follows Derek into the Batcave as he uncloaks, unmasks, un-Batmans. Stiles is so close behind that if Derek were to abruptly stop, he’d get a mouthful of triskele. Not necessarily the _worst_ thing to have a mouthful of. That would be fear toxin. But having someone who he wants to and has gotten down and dirty with spend most of their time either wearing a Batsuit from his wettest dreams or nearly nothing is _trying._

As Derek sits at his enormous triple screen computer, Stiles leans against the control panel slightly to his left. “Talk to me Der.”

Instead of speaking, Derek just huffs, causing Stiles to get snappy. “You know, that thing you haven't done in—” he looks at the clock on the wall, “oh, nine hours.

Derek crosses his arms, “You're being dramatic, I talked to you.”

Throwing his hands up in frustration, Stiles groans. “Warning me not to trip over a fire hydrant is first off rude and secondly doesn't count. Why is what Finstock said getting to you?”

“Funny how you aren't asking _what_ he said.”

“Cut the bullshit, we both know you knew I was there the whole time. World’s greatest detective and all. Let's not insult each other.”

Derek rubs at his bottom lip — a tell he only allows himself to show in front of Stiles. It's how he knew when Derek needed a day to himself, when the anniversary of the fire was bothering him, when he felt like he wasn't enough for his remaining family. Nothing of the Batman was currently sitting in front of Stiles. No, this was Derek Hale in his purest form. “I told Finstock I knew what I was doing, but I don't. I don't have a goddamn clue what's going on here, Stiles!” Derek stands and kicks his chair in violently with a bang.

Stiles would flinch, but after your fourth encounter with a flash grenade you get used to surprises. Instead he lifts his chin. He’s going to listen, Derek deserves that much. And probably more, but Stiles is Stiles is Stiles.

“You come breezing through like you didn't _rip me_ _apart_ , and we just what? Play house for a week and a half and everything’s supposed to be fucking a-okay now?” Derek grips the hair at his nape. “What are we _doing_?”  
  
"We—” Stiles points at the both of them, “are doing whatever we want.” Then he echoes what he had told Lydia days before, only now he thinks he understands what she was saying. Walking over to Derek with his hands raised in surrender and his voice breaking in desperation – because he _is_ so fucking desperate, “Things are different now.”

They’re inches apart, the space between them resonating; a strange loop of heartbreak. Derek cups both sides of Stiles’ jaw, and he doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until his lids are brushed by calloused fingers. His chest fills with those wet emotions again, and he remembers that no matter how hard you fight when you’re drowning… the water always wins.

The fingers touch his upturned nose, his fallen open mouth. Derek’s body heat seeps into his shirt. They're close enough that the whisper tickles his ear. "I don't know how to look at you without hating what you've become."  
  
Stiles opens his eyes and kisses at Derek’s fingertips softly, chaste. "I know the feeling."  
  
"Not everything is my fault, Stiles."  
  
"You say that like I'm the one you're trying to convince,” Stiles says gripping Derek’s waist. “Do you think you're the only one who suffered? You think I decided to walk away on a whim? I needed you Derek. I was so _empty_. My father had died, and I shouldn't’ve had to tell you, of all people, how much I needed you to just be there."  
  
"I was trying to bring your father's murderer to justice. To bring you closure. Everything I've done was for you. Because I lov—”  
  
"No!” he pushes Derek away. He can't hear that right now. He can't. “Everything you've done was for you! Does it look like I give a fuck about justice, Derek?"  
  
"You weren't like this before." No he wasn’t. Before, no one saw his full potential.  
  
"I've always been like this! I know you and Lydia and even fucking _Theo_ think that there are two of me. The Stiles from now and the one from before. But there's only me, Derek. You just couldn't see it... or you didn't want to." He waits a beat. "And I know who killed my father."  
  
"What?" Derek asks, shocked.  
  
"It was..." Stiles swallows looking away. "You don't get to judge me for this. I didn't _know_ then.”  
  
"Stiles.” Derek approaches him like a spooked animal, “Tell me."  
  
"It was the Nogitsune."  
  
"The assassin?” Because of course he knows who the Nogitsune is. It’s a Beacon ghost story told to keep children and baddies in line. “He's not real,” Derek snorts. “A phantom merc hired—"  
  
"By Theo," Stiles finishes. Before Derek can do or say anything Stiles is on him, kissing until Derek’s mouth opens up beneath his own.

Vaguely, Stiles thinks about how Derek tastes the same as when they'd first kissed years ago. Like the ginger tea Isaac forces on everyone who walks through the front door. Stiles once said it was literally Isaac in drink form; bitter, unwanted, and only accepted out of politeness for the Hales.

Derek’s arms wrap around Stiles, holding him in place. It's frantic and breathtaking, like falling thirty stories or making a perfect shot with your last bullet. He doesn't remember it ever being this way with Derek. Back then they were a coming of age, young love cliche. But this… this is dynamic, practically explosive.

This is what people level cities for.

His heart races as Derek guides him over to the control panel that he was previously leaning on and lifts under his ass, placing him on the ledge. Never breaking the kiss, Derek stands between his splayed thighs. A mimic of their position hours ago in the kitchen. This time with significantly more tongue.

They only part when Stiles knocks something that beeps and they both startle. Derek panting against Stiles’ cheek, his forehead pressed to Stiles’ temple, “I don’t—”

He’s sure Derek’s going to say that he doesn't think what's happening is such a good idea. Which Stiles firmly disagrees with. This might be the best idea anyone’s had in months.

“Whatever we want, Der. And you want _me_.” He nips behind Derek’s ear, “So have me.”

Surging forward, Derek kisses him rough and it quickly spirals into feverish touches, discarded clothes and slick fingers.

The side eye Derek gives him when he says there’s lube in his pants pocket is pretty impressive. “Really?” He asks, but he detaches himself anyway and goes to find it.

When he returns, Stiles smirks. “Habit.”

There’s jealousy in Derek’s eyes as he grips Stiles’ waist _hard_ with one hand, holding him in place — thrusting two fingers into his hole with the other, just shy of painful, knowing Stiles likes the stretch to burn.

His voice is a mess when he mumbles, “Oh so when you carry things in your fancy batbelt it's heroic, but when I do, you wanna question my morals.”

Derek curls his digits, and Stiles tosses his head back. _Good god._

Shakily — clearly just as affected as Stiles – Derek says, “Lube is the last thing that makes your morals questionable.”

Stiles doesn’t reply, he’s too busy hitching his legs around Derek’s lower back, trying to take his fingers deeper. Still, he can't help but notice that the hand on his waist is covering the carved _TR._ He staves off a Pavlovian shiver. Derek adds a third, and Stiles feels his stomach twinge with heat. “C’mon, fuck me. You gotta fuck me now, Der. Please.”

“Yeah,” Derek breathes, stripping off his last article of clothing; the goddamn sexiest pair of black under armour briefs Stiles has ever _seen._

That being said, he just about faints when he finally catches sight of Derek’s gorgeous cock as he grabs the haphazardly thrown bottle of lube and coats it.

Stiles had forgotten how overwhelmingly beautiful Derek was naked. How good he could make him feel with his hands and mouth and —  _oh fuck_. Derek slides into him completely with a single movement, and Stiles’ moan reverberates through the cave. His nails leave crescent shaped indentations in Derek’s shoulders where he scrambles for purchase.

The keys under them go off, but Derek just pounds into him viciously like he’s trying to crawl inside Stiles and stay there forever.

Once again, Stiles knows the feeling.

Stiles matches Derek thrust for thrust, both clinging to each other almost violently. So different from how he and Theo have sex. Theo fucks him like they hate each other, all blood and screams and malice. But Derek… every stroke, every graze of their skin, it's as if his entire universe begins and ends with this. Just. This.

With _Stiles._

There are pieces of the puzzle Stiles has been trying to forcefully fit into his life, and startlingly he realizes that the only other person besides Theo who understands the fucking picture is the man in front of him. The same heavy gut feeling that made him run, returns. Only now he wants to _stay._

The sudden realization is too much and not enough. On his next inhale, his breath catches in a tiny gasp and tears spill over, staining his cheeks. They must be flushed by now, as pink as his throbbing cock between their rutting bodies; his spade a sharp inky black against the splotched skin. He hides his face in the crook of Derek’s neck, releasing hiccuped cries — of pleasure, of apology. Hoping Derek can hear everything he can't say aloud _._

_I'm sorry. Forgive me. Let me stay._

Derek shifts them slightly and asks in a concerned whisper, “Stiles? Are you—”

Stiles licks hotly at Derek’s clavicle, “Faster, _more_. I need, I _need—”_

“I know, I know,” Derek mutters, changing the angle so he’s nailing Stiles’ prostate.

“ _Yes,_ Der _, fuck.”_ He hisses, shoving down wildly, chasing his orgasm. So close that all it takes is Derek wrapping a hand around him, and he’s gone — trembling and sobbing as Derek follows him over the edge.

They're sticky and gross and should probably make sure they haven't fried the computer via come, but instead they clutch each other tight. Time suspended in a perfect bubble of something indefinable.

“I love you,” Derek says, kissing away Stiles’ tears. He says it in the same way anyone would say the sky was blue or that Beacon City was the pits of hell. A fact. “I never stopped and I never will.”

“I—” Stiles stammers. He’s not ready yet… but he wants to be. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” Derek beams, understanding that Stiles is agreeing to this. To them.

Stiles cards his fingers through Derek’s hair, mirroring when Derek had during Stiles’ panic attack the previous week, “Yeah.”

 

*

 

Derek doesn't bring up his father again, and Stiles knows it’s because he thinks Stiles will bolt. And he might. But Derek isn't one to let things go, especially not the matter of John Stilinski’s death at the hands of Theo Raeken and someone damn near untraceable. Stiles will just have to brace himself for the fall out when it occurs.

Eventually they do make it to Derek’s bedroom and crash for the rest of the day, only waking when they smell Isaac cooking breakfast for dinner. They stay in the kitchen long enough to snag three waffles each — choosing to sequester themselves under the sheet and each other; sharing syrupy kisses, maybe a syrupy blowjob or two.

It's sweet, pun totally intended, and part of Stiles never wants to leave Derek’s bed. But another buzzes like a sinister electric current; in his head, under his skin. A live wire waiting to shock whoever gets too close.

The only persons who’s ever been able to calm it — is Theo.

_Something impossible,_ he reminds himself. _You need both of them._ It's not a matter of want anymore.

He’s already planning how to put it into action, knowing the difficult task, as always, will be convincing ‘hard on for justice’ Derek to keep them a secret. Again. _That_ is what Stiles agreed to in the Batcave. Trading one secret for another and sacrificing whatever’s left of his pride. Because when Theo comes for him (and he will) he can never fucking know.

 

*

 

With his body vibrating on murder frequency (which Stiles has dubbed MF), he can’t keep still and definitely doesn’t want Derek asking him what the problem is.

Usually, he’d get Theo to fuck him unconscious or incites a bar fight at The Stacked Deck. But neither of those are options he currently has, so careful not to rouse Derek, he slips out of the warm sheets and walks down the hall to the bathroom. Hoping that maybe splashed water on his face can help clear his head into something less bloodthirsty.

He’s going to need more. Should probably call the girls and do a job, or hit whatever rave is going down in the warehouse district. At the very least, if he can’t be dicked down by Theo, Lydia can always drug him up.

This hero gig is hard business.

Before he can reach the bathroom (And really? Billionaire Derek doesn't have an en suite?) Scott corners him.

Of course his best friend is all smiles and dimples, as per the status quo. “Good night?”

“Shove it up your ass, Scotty.” Stiles laughs, his cheeks burning.

“I don’t know man, looks like you did enough of that for the both of us,” Scott says, scrutinizing the hickies dotting Stiles’ neck and chest… and hips… possibly thighs. He didn’t think to get properly dressed just to walk down the hall, so everything not covered by his underwear is on display.

Stiles gasps theatrically. “You checkin’ me out, bro? Oh McCall, you bad bad boy,” he winks. “Too bad I'm spoken for… one way or another.”

The smile drops from Scott’s face in an instant. “What do you mean ‘one way or another’? Don't mess with Derek, Stiles. You really put him through a lot of bullshit when you left. So if you’re just gonna skip off into the homicidal sunset with Theo then you need to let Derek go.”

“I can't.”

Stiles knows Scott doesn't understand. He’s too good and believes in soulmates and true love. Like shit, the _only_ person Scott's ever been with is Isaac. He’s never had a broken heart, and Stiles never wants him to.

“You may be a villain, but you aren't cruel. It’s not fair to anyone. And don't even get me started on what Theo would do if he finds out.”

“He won't.” He _won't._

“You don't _know_ that,” Scott stresses. “Not to mention this isn't healthy for Derek or you.”

Stiles clenches his jaw, “Excuse the fuck outta you, but I'm a shining fucking example of mental health.”

Scott palms his face and sighs, “Stiles…”

“I need him, Scott.” It's the most basic truth. “Theo is—he’s everything, but Derek isn't nothing.” He’s not making a damn bit of sense, but how is he suppose to explain this? How his world was so much smaller, then the warehouse happened and now…

Derek’s head appears, popped out from his bedroom door.  His bedhead is adorable and hilarious, and Stiles wants to bury his nose in it.

“Stiles, your phone, it’s Lydia.” Derek says, half asleep, handing him his cell.

After a quick peck on the cheek, Stiles takes the call, shooing Derek back to bed. He deserves a break, saving the city is a thankless job.

Scott gives him one last worried glance and goes to do whatever he was originally planning before the Stiles Inquisition. It won't be the last talk they have about this, he can already tell.

Putting the phone to his ear he answers, “Lyds! What's the haps?”

“ _Christ Stiles, you need to come clean up your goddamn mess.”_ She sounds distressed and pissed.

Stiles buttons his pants and starts pulling a shirt over his head, “What's wrong? What’d I do?” He does lots of shit, it’s easy to lose track after a while.

_“Theo. You did Theo, and now he’s here looking for you. So you better get your ass in gear and your story fucking straight, or we’re all dead. Now, Stilinski!”_

_“_ On it!” He hits end and laces up his boots just as Derek seems to realize he’s not being joined in bed.

“Where are you going?”

Stiles kisses him softly, “I gotta take care of something, but Derek listen—I'm coming back. Okay? I'm coming back.”

Derek blinks, “You're coming back.”

Stiles nods, opening the window he’d climbed through almost two weeks ago.

“I love you,” Derek says for the second time in two days, determination coloring his tone.  
  
Stiles nods again and jumps. Theo doesn't like to be kept waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> [the trash blog :o](http://smokesforwolves.tumblr.com)


End file.
